


Isn't This World a Crazy Place?

by sassy_cissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, M/M, Pansy Parkinson & Harry Potter Friendship, Pining Draco Malfoy, Playboy Harry Potter, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_cissa/pseuds/sassy_cissa
Summary: The Ministry holiday party is supposed to be the event of the season. So why is Draco so miserable?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Dean Thomas
Comments: 15
Kudos: 341
Collections: Harry/Draco Owlpost 2019





	Isn't This World a Crazy Place?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMightyFlynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyFlynn/gifts).



> Endless thanks to B – she's the absolute best there is and this would not exist without her. And to E for giving it a quick look and catching those pesky typos. Dear themightyflynn…I loved this prompt so much – not to mention the song _Save the Best for Last_. I've wanted to write something using it as inspiration for forever, thanks for giving me the opportunity. I hope you like it.

Draco had no idea how many of the thick, rum drenched eggnogs he’d had; he stopped counting at four, and that was several drinks ago. He’d actually begun with the sickly-sweet holiday drink because he figured he could drink them without getting obnoxiously drunk. Funny, that. He was as sozzled drinking the nog as he’d have been drinking anything, except perhaps scotch neat. It had been a stupid decision to be festive, he supposed, rum being rum after all. Festive. What a joke. He didn’t feel festive, and doubted he ever would again.

Leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, he looked across the room, even though doing so made him completely miserable. But he couldn’t seem to help it. His eyes were drawn to the handsome couple dancing slowly, arms wrapped around one another, leaning back to smile into their partners faces. Draco didn’t care so much about the shorter, slender blond man wearing teal green formal robes; he was pretty, he supposed, in an insipid sort of way. If you went for that type. But he didn’t. Not at all. But the man in his arms – Draco sighed. His partner was stunning. He could allow himself to admit it, drunk off his arse as he was. Tall and broad through the shoulders, the last ten years of daily Auror work outs had added almost two stone in all the right places. His chest was muscular and his waist trim, and his hips narrow. And Draco was convinced that Potter’s formal robes, in particular, had been tailored to make his arse look like something from a Roman statue. Potter turned the little, mouse-faced twit, Sunderson or something from finance, and his very white teeth flashed a brilliant smile. Draco was such a sucker for a man with good teeth. 

His black hair gleamed, no longer a disreputable mess but something artfully mussed by some stylist who’d actually _had_ their hands in Potter’s hair. No one needed to know how jealous he was of whoever it was who cut Potter’s thick, glossy, gently curling hair. Fuck. His hair was lustrous and his eyes were bright green and gorgeous, and Draco wanted him so much it was actually painful. He finished his tenth or whatever drink, then buried his face in his hands and moaned.

“So, do you plan to do anything about this pathetic display or are you just going to surrender the field to Sandringham?”

Draco lifted his head, seeing someone had taken the seat beside his. Well, sort of seeing; they were dipping and weaving in and out of focus, and it took him a moment to recognize the bronze up-do he’d complimented her on earlier and the lovely rose-coloured robes that clung to her slender form in all the right places. If he’d been into women, he might have given Weasley a run for his money. As it was, Hermione Granger-Weasley was beautiful and did absolutely nothing for him.

“You aren’t really going to use sporting analogies when speaking to me, are you?” Draco tried very hard not to sound inebriated, using that very careful sort of delivery drunks used that made him sound even more plastered. He and Hermione Granger-Weasley had become friends several years before over a crossword in the Ministry canteen, and now had a close, if unlikely, friendship.

“You played Quidditch. I thought you might appreciate the effort.”

Draco snorted. “It’s a pitch, Weasley. The field is cricket.” He paused, staring blearily into the near distance, then shaking his head. “I think. I actually have no fucking idea.” He put a hand to his head, “and shaking my head is a terrible decision.”

“You’re drunk.” She gave him a look that reminded him uncomfortably of his mother.

“Give the woman a – something. I have no idea what. I need to go home.”

He tried to stand and she grabbed his arm, holding him in his chair. “You need to ask Harry to dance.”

“Weasley,” he tried to focus on her without much success. “In case it’s escaped your notice, he has a date.”

“He doesn’t care about Sandringham, Draco. And my name is Hermione. Would it kill you to call me Hermione?”

"Possibly," he grumbled. Suddenly as if a light bulb went on above his head, Draco sat up and moved to pat the table. Instead he ended up slamming his hand down onto it, shaking the line of empty glasses in front of him so they rang like bells. “Sandringham! That’s the little shit’s name.”

“He’s actually very nice,” Hermione said softly. 

“Yeah, that helps,” Draco said morosely, leaning on his fist. 

“In fact, he’s entirely too nice for Harry.” She stared at him in what Draco was sure was a meaningful manner, trying to tell him something, but he was entirely too drunk to get it.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means Deylon Sandringham doesn’t have a snowballs chance in hell with Harry. Harry is only being nice to him because the person he _wanted_ to come with has been behaving like an enormous berk for the last six months.”

Draco blinked. “I – who – what? Huh?”

She laughed, and it was ordinarily a musical sound but tonight it hit his nerves with a discordant clang and he grimaced. “Oh, God,” she said, her hand pressed over her heart, “I would have paid anything to have a recording of that. In fact, I may just have to save that memory and replay it in a Pensieve…often.”

“Oh, do fuck off.” He tried to stand again, but this time it was his knees that stopped him. “Weasley,” he whined when his arse landed once again on his chair. He winced at her glare. “Fine. _Hermione_ ," he said her name sIowly, "I know you’re trying to tell me something, but for the life of me, I can’t – I just can’t.”

“Oh, Gods,” she muttered. “The two of you deserve each other.” She glared at him. “Draco, Harry is only with Deylon Sandringham out on that dance floor because you have made yourself unavailable.”

“I have not,” he argued, trying to hold his head steady with limited success. “I’ve watched that -- _man whore_ date half of the Ministry, single or not, male, female, for all I know there’s been a magical creature or two in there. He’s a complete slut, and you know it.”

She shook her head as if he was the most pathetic thing in the world. For all he knew, he was. “He’s dated them; he hasn’t _slept_ with them.”

That seemed to register in Draco’s head. “Wait,” he said. “He what?”

She leaned closer to him. “He dates them. He. Does. Not. Fuck. Them.”

Draco giggled and then slapped a hand over his mouth. He looked from side to side, as if trying to decide where the decidedly unmanly noise had come from. When he spoke, it was in that drunken whisper that's actually fairly loud. "You said _fuck_."

Hermione rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers in front of Draco's face. "Merlin's beard, Draco, focus!"

Draco nodded sombrely, the look on his face comically stern. 

“You must be wrong. He – he,” Draco sat up straighter. “The man has had love bites, for Merlin's sake.”

“I didn't say he didn't snog them. But he didn’t sleep with them, Draco.”

He grimaced, rubbing his hands over his face. This was important; he knew it was. He just needed to understand it. “But why would he let me think he had?”

“Did he say that?” Her eye brows arched toward her hairline.

“He… he…” The fog in his brain was getting thicker, and Draco moaned, resting his forehead on his palm. Finally what he’d been going to say came back to him. He held up one index finger and glared at her. “Just last week, he wore a shirt that very specifically showed a large purple… slut mark on his neck, right above his collarbone. Right here!” He poked the spot on his own neck. It had made him sick, to see the evidence of someone else’s claiming right there on Potter’s neck. His beautiful neck, and his beautiful, prominent collar bones. There had been a hint of black chest hair, too, right in the vee of his open necked shirt. Draco wanted to cry.

“Oh, men!” Granger said in exasperation. “You’re all idiots, I swear.” She leaned forward and grabbed the front of his expensive formal robes, yanking him closer. “I may beat you both to within an inch of your life. Haven’t you ever heard of someone doing something to make someone else jealous?”

He stared at her, struggling to keep her in focus. “Huh?”

“Oh, gods!! All right, listen to me, you pitiful excuse for a Slytherin…”

“Hey,” he protested, truly wounded. “I’ll have you know…”

“If you don’t shut it, I won’t tell you what I know and the two of you can continue circling around one another forever. I’m heartily sick of both of you. Are you going to listen?”

He swallowed, his throat painfully dry, and nodded which hurt like a bitch. “Yes.” Speaking was easier, but not by much. 

“Harry has been mad for you for about five years,” Hermione said carefully. “Probably longer, because I can remember him following you around like a right tit during sixth year. Ever since the two of you have been partnered, he’s been stupidly, painfully in love with you, and the only people in the building who can’t see it are you, and Sandringham. Merlin, Draco, use your head.”

“I can’t,” he whined. “Hurts.”

She kicked him under the table, and he yelped. “Ouch, you daft bint. That hurt.”

She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. “So, how’s your head?”

He glared, then realized it actually didn’t hurt as badly as it had. “I hate you so much,” he muttered.

“You don’t,” she countered. “And if you do what I tell you’re going to love me quite madly. Now, listen to me. And Don’t. Talk.”

Draco glared, but he listened.

_hpdmhpdmhpdm_

Harry’s face hurt from smiling, and if he had to tell Deylon one more time how beautiful he thought the shade of his new formal robes were, no _really_ , so beautiful, he was going to scream. Nothing in the world was worth the agony this evening had become, not even making Draco Malfoy jealous.

Harry turned his partner in a slow circle, glancing once again at the table in the far corner where Draco had been sitting all night. He frowned slightly, seeing Hermione watching him but no Draco. She gave him a jaunty little wave and Harry nodded, then quickly scanned the line at the bar; it seemed to him Draco had spent more than his fair share of time there tonight, but he wasn’t there now. Harry’s heart sank. Fuck, he’d gone home, and now Harry was going to spend the next three hours stuck with Deylon Sandringham and his endlessly needy ego. 

Pansy had tried to tell him. She'd cornered him in their office one day while Draco had been down in records.

“Just ask Draco,” she’d said in exasperation. “You know you want to. If you ask Deylon, you’re going to spend the whole evening reassuring him that yes, he is attractive, and yes, you really want to be with him. Which isn’t fair to you, but more to the point isn’t fair to _him_ at all, and he’s a nice enough little man when you get past the overbite.”

“You are a total terror,” Harry countered, laughing. She crossed her long legs where she sat on the edge of his desk, about a foot from his elbow, and rubbed her calf against his knee. Anyone who saw them would think they were a couple, unless they knew them. Pansy was mad for Dean Thomas, and Harry… well. “Actually,” he said, adding his signature to the bottom of an acquisition report. Ah, being Senior Auror was so romantic. “I think he’s still in love with his ex, which makes him about perfect.”

“Oh yes,” she drawled, “because who doesn’t want to spend an entire evening hearing about someone’s ex.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.” 

Harry looked down into Deylon’s pale, perfectly nice blue eyes, and realized it was true. He was, absolutely hopeless. He was mad for his Auror field partner, and could think of little else other than what it would feel like to kiss Draco Malfoy, to hold him in his arms. He’d be a freak in bed, Harry imagined, desire slipping down his spine, hardening his cock. He canted his hips back, not wanting to give Deylon the wrong idea. How did one actually explain that the hard on you were sporting wasn’t for him?

“Can’t you just imagine little Deylon in bed?” Pansy had said. “All that earnest niceness. Blargh. A total bottom, who can’t imagine actually having to do any work. You want a man who is as big a deviate as you are, and the only one I can think of is Draco.” She’d leaned close across the desk, her lips moving near his ear. “His dildo collection is probably as big as yours. And I do mean that quite literally.”

Harry covered his face with one of his hands. “You horrible bitch. Why are we friends?”

“Because lovely as your arse is, darling, I won’t kiss it.”

It was true. There wasn’t a bit of hero worship anywhere in Pansy, and Harry liked that. 

He twirled Deylon absently, then became aware that his partner had stiffened a bit in his arms. He looked down into the man’s very, very wide blue eyes. “Deylon?”

He didn’t answer, just stared over Harry’s shoulder. Harry glanced back only to find Twilford Mordach standing right there, staring at Harry and his date. Ah. The dreaded ex. Well, he’d been warned about this.

“Twil,” Harry acknowledged him with a slight nod. 

“Mr Potter,” Twilford said stiffly.

“Harry, please. No one calls me Mr Potter.”

“I feel it only appropriate,” Twilford said, his lips stiff, “as we’re adversaries.”

“We are?”

“Twil,” Deylon said softly. “Don’t make a scene. Please.”

Make a scene? Harry looked between them, saw the dangerous gleam in little Twilford’s eyes. Ah, apparently the short man had approached them with that thought in mind. Harry managed to swallow a sigh. He’d brought this on himself, and apparently his plan had worked. He’d just made the wrong man jealous, and now he had to figure out a way to deal with it. 

“Twilford, listen,” Harry started. 

“Well, well… what have we here?”

Harry’s head jerked up, and standing just behind Twilford Mordach was the elegant and so much taller Draco Malfoy. He was wearing beautiful silvery crepe robes that matched his eyes and clung to all of his wonderful hills and valleys, and standing there he looked like a royal, peering down at all of his minions. Gods, Harry wanted to be a minion, on his knees, right there in front of Draco with his head… His cock twitched and Harry hoped the tailored slacks that showed off his arse to such nice advantage weren’t showing off his half hard cock.

“Senior Auror Potter, are you and your date about to create the headline for tomorrow’s _Prophet_?”

“Christ, I hope not,” Harry muttered. He looked down at Deylon, who was watching Twilford with undisguised longing. “Deylon, what would you like for me to do?”

The wide blue eyes came up to his, and the little man bit his lip. “I think we should probably talk. I mean, me and Twil.”

Harry nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea. Just – let me know if you need any help.” 

“Thank you, Harry.” Deylon turned to his ex. “Shall we get a drink?” Twilford offered his arm, which Harry found to be an old-fashioned, courtly gesture, and his throat felt tight.

“Aw, two of the seven dwarves, off to rekindle their romance.”

Harry turned to Draco, and he held onto his composure by his fingernails. “Now, is that any way to talk about a co-worker, Auror Malfoy?”

“One who’s five foot two, Senior Auror Potter? I don’t think it’s inaccurate.” 

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Harry slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Well, whatever shall we do now?”

A slight smile curled Draco’s lips. Harry would’ve sworn he was drunk on his arse twenty minutes before, but now…

“Sobering charm?”

Draco’s smile spread. “Ms Parkinson is a dab hand. She cut her teeth on them at her parents New Year's Eve parties.”

“Where is Pansy?” Harry glanced around the room.

“I believe she and Mr Thomas are making use of a secluded corner.”

“Ah.” Harry rocked from his heels to his toes. “I should’ve recognized her handiwork. I suppose getting a drink now would be pretty counter-productive.”

Draco nodded. “And would make me vomit, which doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

Harry grimaced. “I have to agree with that. So, I don’t suppose you’d like to dance?”

Draco looked thoughtful. “Only if you promise not to assassinate my toes with those…” He looked down at Harry’s boots, his nose wrinkled. “I suppose they’re shoes,” he said doubtfully, and Harry smiled. 

“They’re boots,” Harry said wryly. “Handmade Dragon Hide. I like to think they’re made from the hide of that bastard who tried to eat me fourth year.”

Draco shrugged. “I suppose that would have a certain amount of absurdity.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then held out his hand. He wasn’t nearly as clever or urbane as Draco was, but he made the decision to try very hard to keep up. “Dance?”

Draco looked at his hand, smiling slowly. “Why, I do believe I’d love to.”

Harry’s grin felt almost too wide for his face. Draco slipped his hand into Harry’s, and Harry pulled him in, sliding his hand around Draco’s waist. Unlike Deylon, who had gone out of his way to keep a respectful distance between their bodies, Draco angled his hips so that they were pressed together, hipbones positioned so that they were just interlocking, Draco’s thigh between Harry’s. Draco was slightly taller than Harry was, but Harry was broader, had more muscle, and his arm was strong as he held Draco to him. 

Draco turned his face so that his cheek was pressed to Harry’s, and Harry caught his breath. 

“So, is this a result of your previous partner, or are you that happy to see me?”

Draco’s strong thigh brushed against Harry’s cock, and a jolt of blood shot through it. He didn’t think he’d ever got so hard so fast in his life.

Harry inhaled sharply, and for a moment he wondered what he should do. Then he thought of Pansy, and decided he actually was braver than he’d been acting, and if it caused a problem at work, well… he’d just have to deal with it. 

The song playing was slow and lyrical, and it took him a moment, but finally, with a jolt of recognition he realized where he’d heard it. The summer after his first year at Hogwarts, Aunt Petunia had played it over and over again. It was by an American singer named Vanessa Williams, and his aunt had loved it. It was probably the only time they’d ever agreed on anything. She was a beautiful woman, and the video he’d seen on the telly, when no one was home and he could sneak out to watch, was of her walking in the snow, her voice warm as molasses and sweet as honey. And Draco seemed to go boneless in his arms and they melded together, moving slowly in a circle as the room around them seemed to fade into the distance. Draco leaned back and looked into Harry’s eyes, and all of the snark went out of him.

“I’ve heard this before,” he said, studying Harry’s face.

“It was a huge hit the year we first went to Hogwarts.”

“Oh.” 

Harry watched Draco swallow, his prominent Adam’s apple moving beneath the skin of his fair neck. An ache started in the vicinity of his heart, and Harry allowed instinct to drive him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco’s throat, and he felt rather than heard Draco’s soft groan. It went straight to Harry’s prick, and he let his hand drift down to the curve of Draco’s arse. The lovely melody of the song swirled around them, and it seemed as if their bodies melded together.

 _Sometimes the very thing you're looking for  
Is the one thing you can't see…_

As if prompted from an outside source, they lifted their heads at the same time and their eyes caught, and held, and they moved slower and slower until they stopped in the middle of the floor…

_But now we're standing face to face  
Isn't this world a crazy place  
Just when I thought our chance had passed  
You go and save the best for last…_

Without pausing for thought, Harry lifted his hand and pressed his palm to Draco’s cheek, his thumb moving across a sharp cheekbone, just beneath eyes that were suddenly suspiciously bright. He had to swallow his own emotion, and his eyes began to sting. 

“Oh, this is a sappy song,” Draco whispered. Harry gave a short, strangled sounding chuckle. 

“Yeah, it really is. It’s also beautiful.”

“That, too.”

Harry pulled Draco back in, singing softly in his ear. _“But now we're standing face to face  
Isn't this world a crazy place  
Just when I thought our chance had passed  
You go and save the best for last…”_

“Oh, Gods,” Draco said, his hands curling in Harry’s formal robes and his face pressed into the soft, thick hair behind Harry’s ear. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake.”

“Draco,” Harry held him tighter, “this isn’t a mistake.”

Draco’s lips moved against Harry’s ear. “Take me to bed.”

Harry leaned back far enough to stare into the wide grey eyes, finally seeing what he’d longer for. With a soft, needy sound, he slipped his hand into the fine blond strands and fit their lips together. As he _Apparated_ out of the crowded ballroom, a line from the song echoed behind them. 

_Just when I thought our chance had passed  
You go and save the best for last…_

“So,” Pansy Parkinson drawled to Hermione Granger-Weasley as they both stared at the spot where moments before their best friends had stood. “They’re both sentimental saps. Who knew?”

Ron Weasley shared a wink with Dean Thomas. “You did. You’re both brilliant.” 

He kissed Hermione’s cheek, tactfully ignoring the tears in her eyes.


End file.
